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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26754775">takes one to know one</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/haissitall/pseuds/haissitall'>haissitall</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Sherlock (TV), Video Blogging RPF</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Sherlock (TV), Drabble, Wilbur behaves edgy in this cause he's a villain so beware</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 12:41:26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,505</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26754775</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/haissitall/pseuds/haissitall</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>In a vaguely-Sherlock AU, where Dream is Sherlock and Technoblade is Moriarty, George, Dream's loyal Watson, meets up with Wilbur, Technoblade's henchman (Sebastian Moran of this AU, if you will). They talk for a bit and then stop.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>40</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>takes one to know one</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This is basically a scene taken away from the context of an unwritten fic. You can read it and imagine how cool the actual fic could've been.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Of course, George had brought a gun. He was extremely aware of it, tucked under the belt behind his back, hidden under the jacket. He planned over and over how he would reach for it if things go south, but, realistically, he wasn’t sure he’d have a chance to even let out a surprised squeal, let alone pull out a gun, if it was a trap. They were meeting in public, a fastfood restaurant filled with people, but the whole place could easily be just a front, a decoration with paid actors and disguised mobsters, ready to launch at him in a split second.</p><p>He hesitated before pushing the glass door. What would Dream do? Dream would go in too, for sure. He wouldn’t be able to resist. It was usually George who would be a voice of reason and try to talk him out of this, and now look at him, doing the exact reckless thing he would reprimand Dream for. Dream really was a bad influence on him, to think of it.</p><p>He wasn’t here to alleviate his boredom, though, and not to test his intellectual abilities, he reminded himself. George was here to… negotiate? He wasn’t really sure what the guy who invited him had in mind. His message was intriguing though, worded with honest simplicity:</p><p>
  <i>From one nanny of a crazy smart asshole to another: let’s talk.<br/>
- W</i>
</p><p>George was vaguely aware of who “W” might’ve been - he looked through his own notes, through Dream’s incomprehensible scratchings and coded documents abandoned ages ago in favour of the mind palace, and made an educated guess: it was one of the closest allies of Technoblade - Wilbur, the sniper-assassin guy. These actually were the only concrete pieces of information about him. Called himself Wilbur; had close ties with Technoblade; was a skilled assassin; was a sniper. Probably good with other weapons too, but that went into speculative territory.</p><p>George inhaled and pushed the door. Inside the tacky, plastic restaurant, he counted the tables as instructed and looked at the guy sitting at the one he was supposed to find. Was that him? A young man in a black beanie and a plain sweater was eating pizza, licking his fingers of sauce from time to time. He was skinnier than George imagined. George also hadn't thought he would actually be eating here. It would be so awkward if it wasn’t the master criminal and just some random dude who just happened to sit at that table.</p><p>George approached him, and their eyes met. Even before he gestured to him to sit, George knew it really was Wilbur - a random guy couldn’t have had such an unsettling, sharp stare. His welcoming smile didn’t help - the eyes grew only darker in contrast.</p><p>George sat at the table, lowering himself on the hard red sofa with as much ease as he could master so not to give away his hidden weapon, which pressed into his back.</p><p>“Ah, Gogy,” Wilbur said, “aren’t you a sight for the sore eye! Even more handsome than in photos. I am such a fan of your detective duo, you have no idea.”</p><p>“Thanks,” George replied to an obvious mockery.</p><p>“No problem. I am Wilbur, by the way,” he extended his hand over the table for a handshake. His fingers were covered with pizza crumbs, and George had seen how he licked them a few seconds ago, but if one of the most skilled assassins in the world offers you a handshake, there’s not a lot you can do. He tried to touch his hand as little as possible, but Wilbur had a firm grip, and George could swear it was intentional. “I believe you’ve met my boss.”</p><p>George nodded. It was hard to forget such an encounter. That long coat hanging on broad shoulders like a cloak appeared in George’s disquieting, nervous dreams. Those beady eyes, cold like puddle water, barely honoring him with even a glance, appeared in his nightmares.</p><p>“He didn’t mention meeting you, though,” continued Wilbur, finally releasing the hand, “he talked only about Dream. He is so charmed by that guy.” He stopped to slurp soda, uncomfortably loud. “You know what I told him? I said, 'We can kidnap that little detective of yours and lock him up in a concrete box only you will have the key to.' So they can solve fun puzzles together all day, or whatever people like them do instead of just having sex, you know? But no, where’s the fun in that. Of course, silly Wilbur, he should be free to run around and annoy us, he’s more than just a toy to play with. That’s how much he respects Dream, Gogy. He really does.”</p><p>Was that a thinly veiled threat? Of Dream being kidnapped, held captive at the mercy of that monster? Or maybe Wilbur didn’t even register these words as threatening, speaking about such terrifying prospects with ease because this was only a trifle to him, a fun little possibility.</p><p>His curvy hair was unruly, uneven bangs falling from under the beanie were so long George wondered if they ever messed up his shooting, covering his eyes like that.</p><p>Wilbur fixed his hair in a manner which was probably the reason he kept the bangs: just to be able to fix them like that. “Now, we both know these two won’t stop until one of them is dead.”</p><p>“Dream doesn’t want your boss dead,” George said. “He wants him in jail, where he belongs.”</p><p>“If I had to bet money, I would bet on your <i>partner</i> losing,” Wilbur cut him off, not listening, and emphasized “partner” as if he was the first one to come up with that joke. “He is a well-connected private detective against the man who is called ‘the King of Crime’, I don’t like his chances no matter how smart he is. So it’s up to you to save him, Gogy. To whisper softly into his ear a subtle idea that he should stand back.”</p><p>God, the music here was so annoying, so jarringly incompatible with what they were talking about, the upbeat pop tune as a backdrop for a conversation about a crime lord. George looked around. This whole place consisted of bright lights and tacky colours, and all of that combined couldn’t beat the darkness of Wilbur’s eyes. And he just continued eating the damn pizza. It was all some sort of a game for him too, wasn’t it?</p><p>“If you are so sure your boss will win, why are you wasting your time on this?”</p><p>“My boss,” Wilbur smiled and sat back, as if he was going to indulge in a nostalgic and sentimental confession, “has a vulnerable soul. I am afraid your Dreamy-boy will break his heart.”</p><p>“He has a heart?” George spit out.</p><p>“Shh,” Wilbur pressed a finger to the lips, “just don’t tell him.”</p><p>A vulnerable soul?.. This was simply insulting. George sighed. “You are not making any sense. Dream needs a really good reason to abandon his ideas, I can’t just tell him what to do. I’m not his boss.”</p><p>“Of course not. You are his pet. But you can use your charm, Gogy! Pout your lips, drag him to a trip to France, whatever works with him.”</p><p>“Is this what you do? With Technoblade? Why don’t <i>you</i> pout your lips and get him to leave Dream alone?” George snapped back. Trained assassin or not, he’d had it at him calling George a pet. “Can you actually shoot or does he keep you around just for the looks?”</p><p>“Shush,” he lowered his voice, not a note of previous playfulness left. “Should I borrow the gun you hide in your pants to show how good of a shot I am?”</p><p>George bit his tongue. This wasn’t worth it. Wilbur was dangerous. His pleasant, clean pretty face was like a porcelain vase with an ugly venomous slug hiding in it.</p><p>“I believe you.”</p><p>“Good,” Wilbur smirked and drank his soda again, with the straw making horribly loud slurping noises as there were the last drops of beverage left. “Well. You understood me, I believe. Distract Dream, urge him to deal with threats his size: pickpockets, stowaways, that sort of thing. Techno will lose interest if he thinks the famous masked detective has turned out to be a coward.” He crumpled a napkin and threw it on the table before standing up. “And you would want him to lose interest, George.” Wilbur put a hand on his shoulder and leaned closer to add: “Because otherwise, he will stop at nothing to destroy Dream.”</p><p>The last part didn’t sound like a threat, it sounded more like a sad observation. Wilbur patted his shoulder with force, as if checking if George would shudder (he didn’t), and walked away.</p><p>George was left staring at the junk on the tray and feeling the freaking gun under his belt pressing into his back so hard it would probably leave a bruise. He really didn’t know what he’d expected.</p>
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